"We cannot stay till Madame D. comes home," said the husband.

"I know it," she replied.

"And we had fully decided to leave our child with her." "Yes," said the mother, quite firmly.

"We are only called on to do it three days earlier than we had intended," he proceeded.

"All that," she answered, slowly, "I acknowledge and know."

She appeared to speak like a person in a dream, and the attentive little child, with hands firmly pressed together, seemed to regard her with wondering gravity.

The gentleman sighed, as if he infinitely dreaded the scene that must ensue. Önce more he said, "Now, dearest," and at the same moment he beckoned to the ayah, who, in obedience to some words that he spoke in Hindostanee, came forward and took up the little child in her arms.

Then the mother burst into tears, and begged for a few moments more, and took the child upon her knees, and began to caress her and lament over her. Poor little creature, she was far from understanding the real and terrible loss that she was about to undergo; and when the lady said, "Does my darling know that poor mamma must go away?" she only nodded her little head and said gravely, "Yes ;" and then began to occupy herself with her mother's rings.

Just then the gentleman observed my presence, and came to lead me forward to his wife, asking me if I was one of the pupils.

I said I was, and the lady held out her hand and drew me towards her, asking, hysterically, whether I would be kind to her little child, and saying, "I am so sorry-so very sorrythat Cary should be out. I did want to see her, and beg her to be kind to my little one, and be her school mamma.'

On this mention of Caroline, the gentleman began to tell me that he was an intimate friend of Major Baker's, and had been partly induced to bring his child to the Willows in the hope that Cary would love her.

I could not but declare that I thought Caroline would be extremely good and kind to her, and as I fully participated in the feeling of attraction that we all felt towards Caroline, I drew such a picture of her delightful qualities that the lady was evidently comforted, and, drawing closer, made me kneel on a hassock beside her, and, with motherly tenderness, held my head with her hand against her bosom. The other embraced her child, and through the glossy folds of her rich silk dress I could feel the troubled beating of her heart.

But the dreaded moment was come-the gentleman, who looked as if he longed above all things to have this scene over, pulled out his watch, and the movement attracted the poor mother's notice, for she said something in a broken voice to the ayah, who, folding her hands submissively, made a low salaam, and I remembered enough of my first language to know that she was promising to be tender and attentive to the child; but her speech was scarcely over when the father lifted up the little girl, and held her face against her mother's for a moment, then he kissed her himself, and put her hastily into the arms of her ayah, who hurried with her out of the room.

The mother, after this last kiss, covered her face with her hands, and sat so still that I thought she was listening to the retreating footsteps of the ayah as she carried her treasure away; and when these were no longer audible, she looked up and said, "Merton, I wish to go," and accordingly Massey put on her shawl and her veil, and when she had picked up a little Indian toy that her child had dropped on the carpet, and put it in her bosom, she gave her hand to her husband, who led her to the carriage, and she and he and the bearer were soon shut in, a message of compliment and regret being left for Madame, and an assurance that she should receive a letter that same evening.

Then they drove away, and I ran upstairs to look for the tiny pupil.

ORRIS.

LITTLE BY LITTLE.

BY ANNA MENNELL.

THERE is a beautiful Oriental proverb which says, "By patience and perseverance the mulberry leaf becomes satin.' How encouraging is this lesson to the impatient and desponding, who grow "weary in well-doing," because they fail to realize at once the object of their aim and desire.

It is not by great deeds, but by little ones often repeated, that the mightiest results are accomplished. One brick upon another, one layer upon another, and the pyramids of Egypt, "the most solid shadow of eternity which has fallen from the figure of our humanity," were reared in the desert, to be the

astonishment and admiration of all future ages.

And the coral-worms, those tiny creatures which must be magnified before they can be perceived, have, by their small but continuous efforts, constructed islands in the midst of the ocean, which shall remain while our globe itself lasts. "Little by little;" it is thus that all great works proceed, and are consummated.

Have you ever understood this, dear reader?—or if so, have you not too often forgotten it? Shall I remind you, for instance, of your determination, some time ago, to become thoroughly conversant with the German language? You bought a grammar, a dictionary, and a thin volume in yellow covers, which professed to teach you all that you required to learn without the aid of a master, and you set to work in good earnest. Every spare minute found you busy with your books; and, if a week or even a month could have cleared up all your perplexities, and have carried you over all your difficulties, it is highly probable that you would be, at the present moment, a respectable if not an accomplished German scholar. But what is the real state of the case? Why, instead of now reading with facility the works of certain German authors for your own mental improvement, and translating with ease the productions of others, for the benefit of the unlearned public, as you fondly dreamt of doing when you began the study, you can scarcely repeat a declension with correctness, and you could not conjugate a verb without much hesitation, perhaps not with it. The fact is, that as there was no royal road to learning, you soon got tired of plodding on day after day in an ordinary and toilsome path; your endeavours gradually relaxed; and now the "German without a master," might change its title into the "German without a pupil," for it is thrust with its ill-fated companions into the innermost corner of your bookcloset, as if there was no possible use for it in this

wide world of ours. Ah! you failed in failed in your laudable resolve through want of perseverance.

Or take another illustration. How powerfully you were impressed, as you rose from the perusal of that spirit-stirring biography of one of God's eminent servants, with the importance of cultivating those holy habits that threw such a radiant loveliness around his character. Comparing yourself with him, you were ashamed of the contrast; and you earnestly purposed, in dependence on Divine assistance, to follow him as he followed Christ, and to strive after the development of those winning graces for which he was so remarkable, and in which you were so deficient. And for a little while you struggled against temptation, and watched, with prayerful solicitude, over the growth of good feelings, and the budding of generous actions; but it was only for a little while; all seems at a standstill now; and your spiritual improvement is a beautiful imagining, instead of a living reality. You did run well; what hindered you? Your dislike of unremitting self-discipline-your lack of perseverance. You were willing to begin, but you were not willing to keep on. Had you been told to do some great thing, however large the sacrifice which it involved, or the labour which it required, you would cheerfully have done it; but a life of incessant painstaking in little things, of the daily, nay, the hourly pruning and training of your wayward tendencies, did not exactly suit you; you wanted to reach the mountain-top, not by a number of successive steps, but by one or two long strides; and as you could not do that, you gave up doing anything. Was this wise,

or even rational ?

Will you let me take one more leaf out of the records of your experience? Do you remember that useful and benevolent enterprise-I will not accurately define what it was, lest other people should remember it also-in which you engaged with such cheerful energy

and such ardent zeal? Your example was quite a stimulative to your more tardy associates; they caught your enthusiasm, and emulated your labours. But success did not come so speedily as you had expected or hoped for; unlooked-for obstacles presented themselves; you had to buffet your way through storms, and to face frowns of contempt; and the consequence was that you were disheartened; your interest in the undertaking declined; and if it still goes on, it is not indebted to you for its continuance, for you are no longer to be seen in the ranks of its supporters. Ah! what a pity it is that you did not persevere. You really wished to be useful; you thought of Harlan Page, and Thomas Cranfield, and Alexander Paterson, and other kindred spirits, and you longed to share their labours, and to inherit their reward; but you did not consider that it was the repetition of many little acts, not the performance of one great one, which won for them so bright a name among their fellow-christians. They were not at their post to-day, and away from it to-morrow; not putting their hand to the plough one week, and looking back the next; but alike through evil and through good report, they were instant in season and out of season, always abounding in the work of the Lord; ever ready to do good and to communicate. In one word, they persevered.

Now, dear reader, will you learn this lesson from the past, that steady progress alone ensures success? When John Wesley was once asked by what magic he had rendered his followers so efficient, he is said to have replied, that the great secret consisted in this, that they were "all at it, and always at it.” Every new adherent was not only set to work, but kept at work. There was something found for every one to do, and such was the system of responsibility that was established, that they had to do it. And it was by these individual, but constant and united